1.1.2

The studio seems to have become buried in a fluff of snow overnight. Here in the middle of College Town, the footpaths  and streets are always free of any real collection of snow, having either had it stamped down or salted into melting before it could settle anywhere. Yet somehow, I still have to slog through what seems like a mountain of the bitingly cold formula to get to the front door of my studio. There are a few other sets of footprints leading to the door, but it's not a place commonly known about except by those of us who frequent it and I daresay that the state government doesn't much care to salt the road leading to a building full of amateur professional artists. It's just not high on their priorities.
Once at the door, I have to kick away at the snowdrifts to make enough room to open the door. The second I close the door after me, I know that the drift will once again move back into place so it seems like a feeble and futile effort, but I attempt it anyway.
I pull at the door and wedge it open enough that I can come in, and at once I feel the blast of heat that seems like it should melt the whole block's snow blanket, if not set the dead trees on fire. I slip in and feel the door slam behind me, and the whomp! of snow falling back into place behind the door. How I will get back outside again seems like a good question but it is one for later hours.
Already the heat inside the studio is getting to me, and I make my way off to the side room - first to the right, directly beside the door - and start stripping off layers. I take off my cream colored hat with the pompom on top and flaps down the side that cover my ears, then my red scarf and matching fingerless glove mittens. I stuff those into my black pea coat and take that off as well. My long shirt and sweatpants came off after this, as well as my clunky snowboots. All of this I lay on a large wingback chair that I long ago claimed as my own. The chair accompanies a number of others, ranging from Laz-y-boys to gamer chairs to nice sturdy handcrafted wooden ones, most of them with some remnant of leftover clothing, and the occasional one with as much getup as mine now holds. I grab my favorite pair of boots from under it and lace them up around my feet. I would prefer to walk barefoot around the studio but some people insist that it's "dangerous" and I could "split my foot open" or some such other nonsense.
I brush my hair back and pull it into a tail, which I clip up with one of my many hair clips that form a neat little pile by my chair. I do a once-over of myself in the mirror now; it looks as if I have lost a good fifty pounds by shedding all those layers (always a little confidence boost), and I now wear a brown cotton dress that falls a little past my knees, armless and with a button down collar. Below that is a pair of black tights that goes down to my dull green high heeled steampunk boots, the all around favorite of my wardrobe. The heat of the studio makes this ensemble just about right, and I find myself so thankful that the kilns in the basement blast such strong heat throughout the building.
I made my way up the stairs that are directly across from the front door, my heels clicking like the nails of a dog as I hurry my way up to the second floor. The studio makes up a total of four floors but my particular room is on the second. Down the hall and through the door and I am in what I often feel is my second bedroom. Technically, the room is more like my second home but I consider the whole studio to be my second home, so my particular room needs a better title than that. However, this particular "better title" has not yet made its way to my ears so... This is all just getting too confusing. It's my personal studio room. Enough said.
I share the room with one other girl, a good friend of mine since sophomore year of high school. On the door to our studio room are our name cards - Thistle and Plum. No last names here. Last names can change over time, and unless we are certain that we will keep our last names forever, they're not listed.
Inside the room, I look around at the mess. At home, I try to keep the house as clean as possible, picking up after my roommates more than they would like me to, and doing my dishes as soon as I can after I've used them (and doing my roommates dishes when I can get away with it). I make my bed every morning and my desk is spotlessly clean.
Here at the studio, however, more often than not my half of the room is a mess. A large canvas sits up against a wall, with jars and jugs of pain surrounding it in no particular order and with splatters of color all over the wall and floor. My shelves of supplies are fairly disorderly and paintbrushes can be found in no particular order littered around the room. In the corner is my computer and tablet, sitting on on half of an art table, the other half tilted so that I can draw comfortable on it. The table, although untouched by paint of any sort, is littered with copics and markers, pens and pencils, and any number of erasers each set in mini altoids tins (a fascination of mine). I have stacks of canvases and note pads all around the room, probably taking up much more space than they should be. On my walls are the favorites of my artwork, mostly the cuter pictures printed out from my photoshop works, and the occasional inspiring poem, not by me but by people who do more than a preschooler's rhyme style.
On Plum's side of the room, the wall is no longer visible at all under the layers of her drawings taped up on the walls. The row of windows that glides across two walls of our corner room seem to have a sort of fur lining on top from the rows and rows of paper. She has a small work station for doing tattoos, permanent or sharpie styled. Her stacks of canvases are vibrant with color and each one looks masterful whether at the start or finish. Altogether the room is a mess. A nice, familiar mess.